War Song
by 21Hearts
Summary: It's WWIII and in the final battle, one nation goes up against the enemy of the world. Contains character death, blood and FACE family moments. Inspired by the song "Prototype" by Chiaki Ishikawa.


Basically, this fic is as what its title implies. Here, World War III was all planned and started by my OC Kiev-Rus, an ex-nation. In reality, Kievan Rus was the first established state of the Russian empire and had also housed its capital. However, as we all know with Russia's past, the empire was always under imminent threat and attacks from neighboring countries and nomads. Also at that time, there was issue concerning Russian princedom and monarchs were squabbling over their rights to the throne. What landed the final blow was the invasion of the Tartar Mongols in the 13th century. They sacked many of the empire's cities and later, the capital of Kiev in 1240. Despite the empire's destruction, Kiev still stood, albeit with only around 200 houses left, and is now a city in Ukraine. It had undergone many changes since then, thus insuring Kiev-Rus' survival.

Kiev-Rus is the father of Russia, Ukraine and Belarus since the old empire had been split up into the countries we know today. Far more barbaric and villainous than his children, he jumpstarted WWIII by invading Alaska and making it one of his bases, weakening America in the process. Then, the ex-nation proceeded to kick son out of his homeland to claim it as his own, take his two daughters as hostages, kill off nearby nations such as Denmark and Sweden and have others as prisoners. Of course, our favorite nations retaliate, forming unlikely treaties and friendships along the way. This all ends up with the Battle of Alaska, which is where this fic takes place.

Anyway, I hope that you will enjoy, and possibly shed a few tears, as you read this fic. If I had gotten anything wrong with my historical reference, please PM me about it. Rated for character death, gore, violence, the subject of WWIII and of the destruction of real-life places and landmarks. Includes several OCs, attempts at patriotism and FACE family moments.

_'This is for thoughts.'_

THIS IS FOR SHOUTING AND EMPHASIS.

I own only my OCs.

And now, without further ado, I present you with **War Song.**

* * *

Angry bursts of gunfire. Strident clang of blades. Thunderous booms of lobbed explosives. Stomach-clenching crunch of breaking bones. Sickening quash of torn flesh. War cries of valiant soldiers. Moans and final shouts of the fallen. In general, the affluent cacophony and murderous symphony of the battlefield.

But America was deaf to it all. By the painful throb of Alaska's slow destruction or by the sheer anger and hatred he held for the man before him, he didn't know which.

The one behind it all, he who masterminded World War III and is therefore enemy of all mankind, stood meters from him, taunting him with a knowing smirk. Father of the largest country in the world, Kiev-Rus was indeed a mammoth of a man, towering a little over seven feet in height and nothing but pure muscle underneath the brown bear pelt he wore. A being of the snow, he had pale skin and pure white hair, wild and cascading thickly down his broad shoulders up to mid-torso. Despite his angelic appearance, his eyes were those of a demon's, vivid violet hellfire amidst the cool winter of his features. His weapon of choice rested on his right shoulder, a broadsword whose size and length were superior to those of America's chainsaw. Overall, the ex-nation was terrifying at just a glance and any man would have crumbled to his knees to beg for mercy.

Alfred F. Jones is not just any man.

"Kolkolkol. You've got some balls, kid," Kiev-Rus sneered, his deep voice hinting a faint accent. "Most people tend to tremble in fear at the sight of me. Like pitiful sprouts in an earthquake."

"Really now?" America questioned, countering with his own smirk. "If that were true, then you wouldn't be just another dot in history now, right? Another failed attempt at keeping people and the economy under control?"

"Da, because of those goddamned monarchs," the enemy hissed at the memory, "their petty arguments had weakened my foundations. Then the Mongols just had to storm in and sack my cities, including my capital. I nearly died back in 1240."

His smirk exploding into a demonic grin, he lifted his broadsword from its comfy perch and pointed it at the nation.

"Ah, but I still live. Forgotten, da. But as long as my name is written in the pages of history books and encyclopedias, my lineage still existent in my children, I will remain alive in this world. I am nothing like those pathetic Ancients who have allowed themselves to fall in the hands of juveniles. Nor am I anything like that idiotic Prussia who just permitted the dissolution of his lands. I am above all of them, above all of you, and the wars I have experienced have only hardened me."

He tipped his head back and let out an earthshaking guffaw, the ground shivering beneath their feet.

"And you, a youngling who had only gained independence in the 18th century, a tragic excuse of a superpower not even three hundred years of age, think you can stop me? You can only dream of such a feat! And does not your right shoulder trouble you? Surely a devastating battle tearing down your largest state has weakened you. The scent of your blood is strong in my nose."

Snarling, America cranked his chainsaw into life, fighting back the urge to check the condition of his injured shoulder. Tightening his grip on the handle, he aimed his growling weapon at the ex-nation and shouted his response.

"Never underestimate the American spirit, you fucking commie!"

And with that, both men lunged forward, their blades clashing as they met halfway. Taking advantage of the younger's height, Kiev-Rus forced his broadsword down, long enough to gradually slice through his opponent's defenses. Having no other choice, America jumped back, the blade having already bitten the right side of his neck.

"If you had moved any slower, you would have lost your head," the brute informed, giving the bloodied edge of his weapon a quick lick. "Blood is like wine, you know. The older the nation, the better the taste his blood has. Yours obviously needs more aging, but it truly is a pity that I have to kill you this soon."

"Heh. Not if my chainsaw has anything to say about it."

With a roar, the blonde charged forward and leaped into the air, swinging his chainsaw in a downward arc. Kiev-Rus simply stepped back, bringing down his broadsword once America landed with his back wide open. Said nation rolled away, wincing at the sudden flare in his shoulder. His back to the earth again, he brought up his weapon horizontally to block the incoming slash. The white-haired enemy loomed in, pushing down his blade and the chainsaw's teeth mere inches from America's face. Grunting, the younger man jerked to the left, just in time to avoid having his cheek sliced open as the tip of his motorized blade cut into the ground. In the process of dodging, he had swung a long leg out in hopes of sweeping the ex-nation's own two. Anticipating this, Kiev-Rus jumped up, only to quickly move back when his feet returned to the ground to evade an unexpected assault. America had seized the opportunity to reclaim control of his weapon when the brute was in midair, veering the chainsaw within slashing range and also giving himself space to breathe and regain composure.

"Da, I have misjudged you, youngling," Kiev-Rus admitted, feeling where the chainsaw had kissed the skin of his chest, "it seems that you are that kind of opponent who appears to be weak but should not be taken lightly."

"Well, what did you expect from the Soldier of the World?" America asked as he got back on his feet. "I stick my damned nose in other people's business. I get into wars that don't even involve me in the first place. I will willingly and forcefully help anyone, whether they've asked for it or not. A nation's pain is my pain, just as how I have died several times over when I couldn't save others from their deaths."

"Ha! What a foolhardy doctrine you go by. Do you honestly believe that you can be everybody's savior? Just who do you think you are, boy?"

The nation released a laugh of his own, full of spunk and self-assurance. He then dove in, ignoring how his body screamed at him for his abuse.

"I'm the United States of America, the land of the free!"

He brought down his chainsaw again, sparks flying as its teeth grinded against the edge of the enemy's broadsword.

"Friend to all, brother to many!"

Swinging back his weapon, the blonde struck once more, countering the opposing blade's vertical block with a mighty horizontal slash.

"And in the case that you didn't know…"

The two men were locked in their clash, neither of them giving in. Blazing vivid violet orbs glared furiously at spirited sky blue ones.

"…I'm the motherfucking hero!"

Utilizing all of his strength, America thrust in, his chainsaw screeching madly as it gnashed at its adversary and speared straight towards Kiev-Rus' face. The ex-nation's eyes were wide at how open he was for the attack before his reflexes kicked in and he moved his head to the right. But he wasn't fast enough and the motorized blade sawed through his left check and nicked his jawbone, cutting his left ear into two. Stumbling away, he let out a shout of pain as he gripped at the bloodied area of his face, the left side of his mouth dangling rather limply now that most of the muscles and tendons holding it up have been reduced to useless shreds of flesh. Searing agony clouded his vision but he was able to glower at his assailant.

"You…" he seethed, his eyes wild, "I will KILL YOU!"

An unearthly bellow escaped him as he dashed in at speeds inversely proportional to his body size. Caught off-guard, America hastily parried the blow, his right arm meeting the edge of the broadsword. He didn't expect the next rage-fueled attack so he received the full brunt of it when the brute's fist collided with his jaw and sent him lying on the ground. Shaking his head free of dizziness, he tried to reach for the weapon that had soared out of his grasp only to be stopped by a heavy boot on his injured shoulder. He was too surprised and dazed to restrain the yelp that broke free from his lips.

"You puny brat," his enemy spat out, delighted at how the nation squirmed vainly under him. "How dare you lay your blade on me! I, who had warred with barbarians and nomads for centuries, who had been burned to ground only to rise from the ashes like a great fiery phoenix! And you, an insolent youth of inappropriate age, dare draw my blood? You wish to be like us veterans, da? Then let us see you live through the fires of Hell that will raze your heart and slowly kill you from the inside!"

"What the fuck do you – "

America cut himself short when a sudden wave of dread and fear washed over him. Mere seconds later, his eyes went wide at the abrupt burst in his chest, his left hand immediately over his heart. And before him flashed scenes of a burning city, buildings and landmarks succumbing to the explosions that just kept on coming and coming. In his mind's eye, debris and shrapnel were flying everywhere, the screams of people ringing so terribly loud in his ears that he didn't hear his own cries as they tore through his tight throat. He was vaguely aware of the fluid warmth rapidly drenching his hand and of the salty liquid flowing from his bloodshot eyes, shrieking bloody murder and his body convulsing wildly from the white hot agony tormenting it.

It felt as if his very soul was being ripped apart, sluggishly and painstakingly so. And as his life drained away little by little, he could hear Kiev-Rus' triumphant laugh from miles away.

For the first time in centuries since the accursed Revolutionary War, England faltered.

There was a sudden weight on his shoulders, sending him to his knees and forcing him to thrust Excalibur into the ground for support. Somewhere behind him, he heard his brothers shout his name and Ireland's hurried footsteps rushing towards him. But that was all drowned out by a harsh sound he recognized amidst the chaos of the battlefield, screams that were all too familiar to him.

Panting desperately, he looked around and found France and Canada in same condition as he, an unexplained surge of distress bringing them to a standstill. The three of them locked gazes, seeing the horror in each other's eyes. And at that, they knew the reason why.

America. Alfred.

"Artie, you bloody git," Ireland hissed, helping his twin up, "this is not the time to tarry."

"I-I need to go," the Brit stuttered as he feebly pushed his brother away. "Alfred…my son – "

"Even with the rift between you two, you still call him that? Even with how much he has surpassed you with, you still see him as your own flesh and blood? Even with the independence he had forcefully taken from you centuries ago, you honestly think you still have the right acknowledge him as such?"

England turned to the redhead, thick brows furrowed above his raging forest green eyes. Standing tall on his own feet, he grunted his reply.

"Yes."

Ireland stared owlishly at him before letting out a rather amused huff.

"You've seriously gone bonkers for that tyke, haven't you?"

The younger of the twins chuckled at his remark.

"You know that saying, Nigel. Old habits die hard."

"You really are that bugger's father. Well, you better skedaddle now. Daniel, Lancelot, Allistor and I will take care of this mess. Aren't I right, lads?"

The personifications of Northern Ireland, Wales and Scotland made their way to the two, all covered in blood and grinning widely.

"You can bet your bloody whiskey on that, Nigel O'Malley!"

"Get a move on, Arthur! These ruffians are nothing against the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

"Yeah, yeah. What the Dukes of Kiss-Arse said."

Smiling, the Brit raised his sword in front of him, his brothers following suit. Their blades met at the middle, the rough five-pointed cross they formed a symbol of their knighthood and of the unbreakable bond between each other.

"I thank the Lord God for giving me you crazy wankers as my siblings," he declared, then broke away from their little formation.

The four left behind watched as their brother ran off, France and Canada joining him. After sharing knowing glances, they dove back into battle. Arthur, the runt of their litter and once the most hated of the British Isles, was all grown-up now.

And they couldn't be any prouder.

Little Billy Joe could do nothing but watch in utter fear as Washington DC burned on and on, ravaged by fires that have seemed to have risen from Hell itself. Around him were the bodies of his classmates and teachers and in his young mind, he wondered if this was what being lucky meant. It was supposed to be an average field trip to the White House, after all.

That was until a fleet of planes have been spotted flying overheard. Planes that have dropped hundreds of bombs and incendiaries on the capital.

A horrifying shade of red occupied his scope, from the flames that licked their way up concrete, marble and metal to the blood that seemed like a vast sea around him, drowning his innocence. It was too much for his six-year-old way of thinking and he would have cracked then and there had he not recognized a familiar, much more welcomed, kind of red.

It lay crumpled in front of him, its ends singed and holes decorating its form. Nonetheless, he stretched out one arm and gripped the fabric, pulling it into a shuddering embrace. Tears flowed down his rosy cheeks and dripped onto the flag of his country, the trauma finally sinking in.

Why? Why his country? Why his people? Why his best friends and family? Just…why?

He was sobbing hard, but something else came out of his throat. Not a cry for a help, not a shout of anger, or even a despairing whimper. What his lips shaped and his voice gave life to was a song.

A song of hope.

It started out as a soft hum, dotted with a few gasps for air. Then came the words.

"_O, say, can you see? By the dawn's early light…"_

And thousands of voices joined the weeping one, their combined tone not of solemnity, but of passive strength. Yet they grew louder and louder, proudly chanting their fallen country's anthem.

His anthem. His song.

It was what pulled him out of the frigid dark, bringing him back into consciousness. The first thing he registered was the dull throb his body gave off, nerves deadened by tremendous amounts of pain. The next thing that pierced through the fog of his mind is the lack of a ground under him and he was sure that he had been pinned to the earth by…by…

Shit, what had happened again?

He carefully opened an eye by just a crack, wary of whatever situation he would find himself in. There was some dude in front of him that looked a lot like Russia, except for the white hair and the bearskin he donned and the more messed-up aura he possessed. Said commie-look-alike was laughing his head off at something, a big hand gripping some kind of collar with black fur…

Ah, it was his favorite bomber jacket. The bastard was holding him up like a trophy or something, thinking that he was already dead. What was his name again? Cleft-Ross? Clive-Roast? Cleave-Rush?

Wait! Kiev-Rus! That's it. An ex-nation and father of Russia, Ukraine and Belarus. Blah, blah, blah, veteran. Blah, blah, blah, commie. Blah, blah, blah, evil mastermind…

…of bombing Alaska and DC, of killing Sweden and many other nations, of injuring Sealand, of World War III. God, how can he just forget all of THAT? Maybe Iggy was right about his denseness.

"…of America…pathetic…too easy…"

Fucking commie's fucking asking for it, isn't he? Well then. Time for the dashing hero to make a brilliant comeback.

"The United States of America? Ha, so pathetic! Way too easy!"

Kiev-Rus' victory was short-lived. Too busy guffawing at his so-called "success", he was completely stunned when the ridged sole of a boot crashed into his face, hitting his cut-open cheek. Yelping at the sudden movement and flare of pain, he let go of the seemingly dead nation and stepped back, one hand caressing his injury while the other went for the hilt of his broadsword.

"What the Hell was that?!" he roared, only to have his blood run cold when he received a response.

"A little something I call…payback."

His vivid violet eyes landed on the body that he had held just a moment ago, the body he swore no longer breathed and pulsated with life. Yet America was alive, shakily pushing himself onto his feet. Golden blond hair matted with sweat and blood, the weakened man was panting like a dead-beat dog and bleeding from the gaping wound on his chest, over his heart. Hadn't his capital been reduced to ruins by the bombing the ex-nation himself had planned? Shouldn't the world's superpower crumble lifelessly by his hands? If so, then why was the personification of the United States of America standing before him on unsteady footing, sky blue eyes ablaze with an inferno that Kiev-Rus, forerunner and father of the USSR, found utterly terrifying?

"For someone…who claims himself…superior to all of us nations…" the blonde gasped, a hand on his chest wound, "…you never…learn your lesson…do you?"

"B-But…how? You are supposed to be dead!"

"You may have your lineage…but I have my people. As long as there are Americans in this world…I will always bounce back up and continue fighting. My people are my strength…they are all I need to live. You, however…your own historians are still arguing about your true roots…"

Smirking, the resurrected man decided to grab the bull by its horns.

"…da?"

Angered beyond civilized measures, the brute thundered towards him, broadsword raised high above his head. America ran forward to meet him, diving between the ex-nation's legs at the last second. On his belly, he slid to where his chainsaw lay forgotten, quickly grabbing the handle and flipping onto his back to block Kiev-Rus' assault. His white-haired enemy was growling at him like a rabid beast, his face inches from his own.

"Two words," America wheezed out as he tugged at the string, "breath mints."

One final pull and the chainsaw's motor greeted him with a booming whirr. The motorized blade's teeth were able to grind cracks across the broadsword's surface and before the ex-nation could even move to save his precious weapon, he was sent flying a few meters back by a kick to the gut. Free again, the wounded nation got back on his feet, facing off against his enemy.

Somehow, they both knew that their next clash would be the finishing blow for one of them.

It was now or never. The two men charged forward at the same time, roaring out their battle cries. Making up his mind, America readied his arm muscles for a single diagonally-upwards stroke, planning to bring his chainsaw from bottom right to top left. Kiev-Rus opted for the opposite, a diagonally-downwards slash of his broadsword, top left to bottom right, perfect for his advantage in height.

Time seemed to slow down as the leaders of the two factions met in the middle, executing their attacks in the blink of an eye. Both skidded to a halt a good distance away from each other, the young nation with his raised chainsaw and the ex-nation with his lowered broadsword. And all of a sudden, there was a spurt of liquid crimson.

"Defeated…by a mere…youngling…?"

Kiev-Rus fell to the ground, cut clean through into two oblique halves. As his blood seeped into the earth and his innards spilled from his cadaver, America took a few shaky steps forward, dropping his chainsaw in the process. With a final puff, the motorized blade ceased its growling, but the arm still attached to it was twitching as if it had a life of its own. Ignoring his severed limb, the blonde let out a raspy laugh.

"Haha…nighty-night…fucking commie…"

And with that, the victor also collapsed.

Another jolt of pain shocked his system.

Frantic, England hacked his way through the sea of enemies, Excalibur glinting dangerously with each killing stroke its wielder maneuvered it into. He was way ahead of France and Canada, but he knew those two could take care of themselves. Besides, they had each other's backs.

America, on the other hand…

He tried to push down the awful thought he had, but the blasted thing kept on rearing its ugly head. What if he was too late? Would he find his ex-colony in a pool of his blood, dead? Barely alive? No, it shouldn't be like that.

Instead, he was just in time to see him fall to the dusty ground with a heartbreaking thud.

"No…AMERICA!"

He made a mad dash for the injured nation, instantly letting go of his sword and crumpling to his knees when he reached him. With shivering hands, he carefully turned him around, pallid skin and crimson meeting his sight. He closed his eyes at the horrid scene but when he opened them again, they landed on the sorry stump that had once been the younger blonde's left arm. Holding back the urge to gag, he focused on the unconscious man's chest, his entire being freezing over when he saw the lengthy gash over his former charge's heart.

Oh, God no. Just…NO.

His trembling fingers fumbled for the phone in his pocket then dialed the number of a subordinate back at headquarters. Panic had him its gnarled grip, the other end of the line ringing twice before it was finally picked up.

"Yes, Sir Kirkland. How – "

"What's the status on Washington DC?"

"Sir?"

"Do not answer me with a bloody question, lad! I have asked for the status of America's capital and I expect you to give it at once!"

There was silence as England waited, briefly looking down at the bloodied, breathing body before him. When the soldier finally replied, he sounded terrified.

"S-Sir…Washington DC and the states surrounding it have been…bombed…thousands dead…only a handful – "

The phone fell to the ground with a dull thunk, having slipped out of the Brit's slack grasp. It was like with WWII all over again, German planes assaulting London with the explosives they ferried then let loose upon the city. Only this time, someone else has suffered the cruel fate.

Someone dear to him.

"I-Iggy…?"

England found himself turning to the source of the call, tears already welling up in his eyes. America had regained consciousness, craning his neck to where he felt the older nation's presence.

"You're here…right?" he croaked, squinting his glassy, sky blue eyes. "Everything's…just a blur right now…"

"That's because you've lost Texas somewhere, you bloody scatterbrain," England forced out, masking his anguish with a voice that took on a chiding tone.

"Heh…just like…my arm?"

He visibly cringed at America's comment, thankful for his former charge's nearsightedness.

"Shut the Hell up, you delirious git. We're going to have that fixed."

But it sounded more like he was comforting himself rather than the injured man. England shuffled closer, resting his ex-colony's head on his lap. America was so numb that he felt nothing at the change in his position, only humming softly when his former caretaker's heat radiated onto his cold face.

"Angleterre! Amerique!"

"Oh my God…ALFRED!"

Two more blurs entered his vision, one settling on his right and the other to his left. Yet he didn't need glasses to tell that the other two members of his dysfunctional family have arrived, sitting on either side of him.

"Hang on, Al," came Canada's desperate plea, tears evident in his quiet voice. "Just…don't go to the light, aye?"

"Mathieu, use this to staunch the flow of blood," France said as he handed the boy his capelet, "tear a portion off and wrap it around his…arm. As for the rest, press it down on the gash on his chest."

America hardly noticed the fabric being bandaged around his handicap, his consciousness beginning to fluctuate in and out. But what brought him back to his senses was the unwelcomed pressure on his chest wound, soliciting a gasp from him. He managed to wriggle his discomfort albeit weakly, only calmed down by the warmth from hands on his cheeks.

"Just breathe, Alfred," England's voice flitted down from above. "Breathe."

Whimpering, the injured nation did as he was told, his pants for air short and shallow as his sight clouded over even more.

"Hurts so much…Dad…" he slurred, closing his eyes when he felt the pain spread throughout his battered body again.

His father, Arthur, froze. It had been so long since the younger blonde had called him that, way back when he had been first found and adopted. No longer fighting back his tears, the Brit brushed his son's bangs to one side of his face, twirling Nantucket with a finger affectionately.

"I…I know, kid. But don't let go, okay? Your family's here for you now. Please don't leave us."

"Óui, mon cher," Francis agreed, taking his son's remaining hand and planting a kiss on his knuckles. "We're all going to help you back up. Try your best to stay with us, s'il vous plaît."

"Listen to Papa, bro," Matthew sobbed, the saving pressure he applied on his twin diminishing, "listen to Dad and listen to me. You're my best friend, Al, and the best big brother I'll ever have. I need you a whole lot. WE need you a whole lot. So just stick around, aye?"

Smiling, Alfred was about to answer back when rough coughs rattled his tired frame, blood streaming from the corners from his mouth and sputtering from his lips. His family huddled closer around him, his pain almost their own. When the gory onslaught ceased, he was left breathless.

"S-Sorry, guys…" he rasped, tears in his eyes, "…I ain't…gonna last…that long…"

"What in the bloody Hell are you saying, twat? You're going to live through this, you fucking hear me? You're a goddamned nation, for crying out loud – "

"Language, Angleterre! The boy must not hear that from you!"

"And who are you to say that, you stupid frog? You were just a parent to him for a short while!"

"At least I didn't force taxes on my child!"

"You fucking wanker – "

"Dad! Papa! Please stop it! Al doesn't need to hear any of this! Especially since he's…he's…"

A soft chuckle interrupted the argument between the three, startling them out of their spitefulness.

"Ha…been so long since…I've seen you guys…fight like that…" Alfred muttered, forcing on the biggest grin he could muster in his state. "Like…a family…"

At his words, three hearts shattered simultaneously. With a sniff, Matthew sat back on his ankles, finally giving up on his twin's injury. Arthur denied the scream clawing its way up his throat, biting down on his lower lip so hard that it bled. Being the eldest, Francis was the one who broke the dreaded silence, stroking his son's cooling hand.

"But we are a family, mon cher. YOUR family, óui? Tell you what. After all of this nonsensical war, we'll have a little get-together. Just the four of us."

"Aye! A picnic!" Matthew piped in as he gripped Arthur's shoulder to gain his attention and have him tag along. "I know this place where the grass is just the right shade of green and the temperature's just fine for us, not too cold or too warm. Plus, there'll be a lot of maple trees nearby so I can teach you guys how to make maple syrup. How does it sound, Dad?"

The Brit blinked at him. But seeing that hopeful glimmer in his eyes, he couldn't help but smile.

"That…" he trailed off, looking down at his dying son, "sounds splendid, Matthew. It's been a long time since we've hung out together. As a family. I'll bring us some tea and crumpets – "

"Let me handle the food, Arthur," his French frenemy cut him short, flashing him a good-natured grin. "I am very sure that Alfred, Mathieu and I do not wish to get poisoned. I still clearly remember what had happened to my dear friend Prussia."

"Yes," the Canadian of the four approved as he nodded solemnly. "May his poor soul find eternal peace."

"Oi! You and I know full well that he had just fainted!" Arthur snapped, then decided to laugh it off. "But I guess I have to take up your offer, Francis. I'm not as heartless a parent as everyone else thinks I am. I don't want to poison my own children. You, on the other hand, old frog…"

"Mon Dieu! My heart, she is breaking! Arthur, my beloved and significant other, wishes me to an early grave? Sacré bleau!"

"Hey, hey, Papa. You're being a little bit dramatic, aye?"

As the familial conversation went on, Alfred watched it noiselessly with glazed sky blue eyes. A small smile of contentment found its way on his face when he realized that he had no regrets on facing Kiev-Rus alone and with no second thought. No regrets that he was the one knocking on Heaven's door in the end.

After all, he had done it for his fellowmen. His friends. His family. And if given another chance, he'd do it again with a goofy grin on his face and with a friendly high-five from Death.

But he wished that his vocal chords would listen to him. That he could just talk some more, maybe apologize to his loved ones for all the shit he had put them through, thank them for always being there and for sticking up for him no matter what, tell them to move on and continue living for him, shout out to them and to the whole world that he'll love them and watch over them even in the afterlife.

Then the big one hit, a great shudder of pain that struck every fiber of his being, scorched every wisp of his soul. That of which he knew in his slowing heart and dimming mind will finally take him away from the world of the living.

And so, with one last mighty heave of his chest, with his only regret that of not being able to spend more time with his dearest ones, he gently whispered to the wind, hoping that it would carry his message to his cherished people.

To his family.

"Sir! SIR!"

Irked, Arthur had to break away from his chat with a theatrical Francis and reached for the communication device he had dropped on the reddened soil of the battlefield, bringing it up to his ear and barking his response.

"What is it?"

"Sir…those b-bloody communists…those fucking arses…"

"Speak up, lad! What did they do now?"

He could hear the frightened shouts and curses on the other end of the line and he didn't like it one bit. There was a strangled sob and his soldier finally replied, his tenor voice cracking.

"They…they nuked DC!"

And Arthur's whole world came crumbling down.

With a burst of maddened energy and blazing fury, he threw away the phone, believing it to be cursed with lies and nonsense. This brought Francis and Matthew out of their cheerful talk.

"Arthur, mon cher, what – "

"Shut up, frog!" the Brit screeched, then turned his attention to his strangely silent son. "Alfred? Come on, my dear boy. Speak to us."

But the younger blonde, usually so energetic and boisterous and ready to reply with a jubilant bellow of laughter, didn't answer. He lay motionless in a pool of his blood, pale lips frozen in a small, haunting curve. Not the blinding grin or a smug smirk he was typically associated with. It was a petite smile filled with satisfaction at the sacrifice that had been carried out, at the long life its owner had seen through, at the last moment spent with family.

No. That was wrong. Sinful. Unorthodox. That smile was – _'IS, goddammit, it's a bloody universal fact'_ – too diminutive for someone as big as the personification of the United States of America. Too finishing for somebody as full of life as Alfred F. Jones.

And yet there it is and forever will be. Refusing to accept it, Arthur mildly slapped his son's cold – '_ice cold, deathly cold'_ – cheek in an effort to rouse him from his – _'perpetual, eternal, endless'_ – sleep.

"This i-isn't funny, Alfred. Wake up. We're going on a picnic, aren't we? For some family bonding time? So wake up, kiddo, because we aren't going without you."

The underlying thought was as clear as day.

'_We are never complete without you.'_

There was a shrill ring and out of the corner of his teary vision, he could see Matthew answer his phone, only to let it fall out of his hand seconds into the call. Then the boy let out a heart-wrenching wail and embraced his twin's unmoving body, his cries muffled by the bloodied chest he buried his face into. Gasping, Arthur weakly shook his unconscious – '_DEAD, you idiot, deceased, departed'_ – son's shoulders.

"Wake up, you git! This is not the time to be sleeping. We're in a war, remember? You better not let your guard down!"

As the sensible one, Francis immediately knew what had happened. Leaking tears of his own, he took Alfred's hand and kissed it, mumbling softly in French. Unable to hold back any longer, he pressed it to his cheek as he closed his eyes and whimpered quietly, mourning for a son he hadn't spent enough time with.

"You goddamned wanker! Wake the fuck up! Aren't you the United States of America? The bloody hero?! Heroes aren't supposed to fucking die! This isn't the bloody happy ending we've wished for! The whole world needs you! We need you…I need you…SO WAKE UP!"

Around them, the sounds of battle died down, all ears stirred by his panicked shouts, and the other nations had their gazes on the broken family. Russia had his head bent down, uncharacteristic tears streaking down his cheeks as he glared acidly at the wretched remains of his father. China was bawling aloud, rubbing at his eyes furiously with his arm and shaking his head in denial. Supporting one another, Arthur's brothers limped into view, bowing their heads in honor of the nephew they had lost. Italy had fallen to his knees at the sight of the bloody scene, muttering Italian prayers hysterically as Germany collapsed by his side and rubbed comforting circles on his back, offering a shaky salute to their fallen comrade with his other hand. Japan was also on his knees, tears spilling from his emotionless eyes. The young Asian then bowed low to the ground, trembling violently and paying his respect to the man he considered his best friend.

"W-WAKE UP! WAKE UP, GODDAMMIT! ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF?! WAKE UP!"

'_Nonononono…don't leave me. Not like in the Revolution. Not like this.'_

"IF YOU DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES THIS INSTANT, I'LL…I'LL SHOVE SCONES DOWN YOUR BLOODY THROAT! I'LL CAST A HUNDRED BLOODY CURSES ON YOU! I'LL SUMMON GHOULS TO HAUNT YOU AND THE DEVIL TO HAVE HIM KICK YOUR SORRY ARSE TO HELL AND BACK AND HELL AGAIN! I'LL…I'LL…"

'_I won't do it. I know you hate my cooking. I know you don't believe in magic. I know you're scared of ghosts. I know you're an angel sent to me from Heaven. I know you love me, son. You know I love you, right? With all my heart and soul and all that I am. Wake up, my dear little Alfie. Wake – '_

He cut his train of thought short to listen to the gentle breeze that blew past him, swearing he had perceived something in it. Straining his ears, he at last heard a voice so cherished and achingly familiar to him, whispering to him its last words.

"Dad…Papa…Mattie…love you…"

His mind came to a standstill, his throat choking on a single name.

"America…Alfred…Alfred…"

The name of his ex-colony. Of his dead son.

Finally torn apart, Arthur Kirkland, personification of England, formerly the most feared pirate of the seven seas, brother of numerous nations, father to the late Alfred F. Jones, let loose an animalistic scream.


End file.
